


If We Called it a Bacchanal, He'd Be Pissed

by Cuda (Scylla)



Category: Constantine (TV), Supernatural, Torchwood
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Orgy, just another day at Torchwood, saving the lives of innocents with sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 09:08:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2807135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scylla/pseuds/Cuda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Constantine is entirely aware of what he's gotten himself into with these lads, and it's nothing good. Or well, it's occasionally good, and then it's occasionally tramping around in a freezing fir forest, looking for faery lights. And then it's occasionally having a foursome with a harvest deity. Y'know, the typical bullshit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If We Called it a Bacchanal, He'd Be Pissed

John Constantine ran into a number of immortals in his illustrious career. Just the name of the game, luv, when you exorcise demons for a living. But nothing, nothing like these two. Just look at the power signatures on them. Twin suns, pouring out boundless energy and heat as they circled one another.

Castiel and Jack Harkness, an angel of the Lord and a bloody immortal man. Gorgeous things, both of them, brilliant and rare as unicorns. Too bad he'd gotten to know them. From a distance, they looked like sweet dreams. The nightmare parts, visible up close, were harder to swallow.

But John was used to nightmares. At this point, his lot tossed in with theirs was less surprise, and more running gag.

He marched along in the crispy winter forest, ragged thorns and cockle burrs tugging at his trench. Castiel led the way, overcoat pale as ghost in the deepening dark. Jack walked at the rear, lost in the shadows. But oh, John could feel him, the dial turned up on that unholy life force of his, until Jack fairly burned with it.

"Not that I mind a hike, lads," John panted, "but this is a fair jaunt."

"Your lungs are compromised," Castiel's flat voice drifted back to him.

John didn't have the breath for a blistering reply, but he certainly thought it. The cold intensified by degrees, and he wished he'd thought to layer on a pair of thermal shorts. He appreciated the pair of thick gloves Jack pushed at him, wondered briefly at how Castiel seemed completely unaffected up front, and was glad at least one of this team didn't take weather preparedness pointers from an angel.

He huffed at himself and mentally erased the word 'team.' Good god, they were rubbing off on him. That word came with a great big red 'NO' stamped on.

Castiel halted as the evergreens grew thicker. He held out his hands to them and asked Jack to douse his torch. The dark that dropped around them was total, and John reminded himself to breathe. One of the simplest 'paranormal' cons in the book: put a human in total dark and they'll make their own ghosts for you. The biological alert system of the average human was a thing of evolutionary wonder and terror. He wasn't surprised when his struggling eyeballs began finding shapes in the dark.

"Castiel—" John started, before the angel shushed him. Castiel's hand landed on John's left shoulder around the same time Jack patted his right. Honestly, the pair of them. John thought about shrugging them off, and decided against it. They were calming, familiar, even if they collectively worried— all right, terrified him. He was a logical person, and anyone with an ounce of rational thought would have run screaming by now.

He was wondering what the hell he'd gotten himself into and moreover, could he survive a jog back to the SUV without dying of exposure, when the first lights appeared. They were the only light in this Hundred-Acre Wood O'Doom, and John's hungry eyes latched onto them immediately. One turned into three, then seven, and then a dozen little bouncing orbs of yellow in rapid succession. Under his gaze, they made a processional, an intermittent flash behind the moving tree boughs. The line of faery-lights drifted closer, and Castiel signaled them down. John knelt, rubbing a hand over his numb face.

Soon, the lights attached themselves to candles, and the candles shone in the hands of smallish hooded figures. John murmured a little incantation, fanning the gossamer net of a revealing spell over the parade. In his mind, the hoods dropped back, revealing the beatific faces of—

"—Girls," John breathed, "Those missing teenagers. They're all here."

No one else spoke, until they had a comfortable distance from the lights. They began to follow.

"This is worse than I thought," Castiel muttered darkly. The pocket nearest John vibrated, and Castiel withdrew a tiny flip phone.

"Is it fairies?" Jack asked warily. John wondered just what it was about the wee things that put the almighty fear in Jack's voice.

Castiel nodded, illuminated by the harsh LED screen. "Possibly."

John checked his own phone and glared. "He's got coverage?" John muttered to Jack, "How has he got coverage?"

Jack only laughed.

The urgent look on Castiel's face silenced them both. "That was Sam. We're wrong. It's a deity. Dionysus."

Understanding blossomed for John, in bright, red warning lights. "Bollocks."

"What?" Jack demanded, "What's wrong?"

"Dionysus sent all the virgins of Athens to their deaths," Castiel said, "after a misunderstanding with drunk shepherds."

"Story of my life," Jack quipped. John didn't have to see Castiel roll his eyes to know they existed. His exasperated sigh spilled over the silence.

"He's going to kill these girls, if we don't stop it," John translated, "keep it short, Castiel. Can we get those girls out?"

Castiel sighed again, gentler this time. The lights paused, and so did they. "We can't kill Dionysus. There isn't time to get the materials."

John blinked. Nothing surprised him anymore about these two, but that was still unusually casual. "You lads in the habit of killing gods?"

Jack clapped him on the shoulder. "It's a hobby. What's the plan, Castiel?"

"Those women are under a geas. We have to convince Dionysus to release them."

John nodded, glad to hear words he understood. "Break the geas; they die. Herd them out of here; they'll just come back. Oh, Christ, you know how to pick 'em."

The procession picked up again. John and his entourage followed, tension so thick in the air around him that it could have been a fog. Nobody knew what to say, least of all him. He, first and foremost, didn't want to be here, but getting back without them would take a miracle. Either way, he was probably dead. And still his mind picked at the problem, and in his thoughts a fog rose, over and over again, screening the girls from harm. Fog. Why fog, all of a sudden?

Wait.

John snapped his fingers. "Fog. Right. _Smokescreen._ We're gonna make ourselves the biggest, baddest game in town, my boys. If the old wino doesn't kill us, he'll think we're fish too big to eat."

The others made curious noises around him. John reached in his pocket for his lighter with one hand, and overhead to pluck handfuls of pine needles as they passed. "Oh, come on. You two are fucking nuclear reactors and I'm a master of illusion. If I can't trick an alcoholic deity into giving up some pretty baubles, I _deserve_ to be eaten."

* * *

When John thought about being eaten, he hadn't meant it euphemistically.

And yet here he was, with a Grecian harvest god on his cock.

Dionysus was a bit of all right, with long dark hair, a strong nose and square jaw, dark eyes you could lose yourself in, and not a trace of beer belly - a miracle, considering his stock and trade. _Apparently,_ he dug the irreverent male persuasion a bit more than slaughtering virgins. Lucky for them, because the whole clever disguise routine - well thought out, but poorly executed on his part - failed. He refused to take full responsibility, considering the situation. Sam 'Haven't You Heard? We're _Legacies_.' Winchester hadn't been as helpful with the research as previously hyped, and John had to improvise. Whatever the reason, their display amused Dionysus, and he seemed more interested in entertainment than a ritualistic mass murder. The girls went traipsing home, cloaked in the same warm, blissful ignorance whence they'd come. Meanwhile John and his company settled down for a winter's orgy amid the firs, like proper pagans.

"Isn't this a bit outside your by-laws?" John hissed up at Castiel, whose fingers were buried in John's hair.

"Completely," Castiel replied, and leaned over him, sucking John's lower lip into his mouth. Somehow, the twist of Castiel's tongue matched up beautifully with that of their gracious host, and John keened along to their duet. His whole being surged up in flames like a lusty bonfire, until Jack's cold hands pressed into his stomach. John came back to himself with a yelp, to find Jack had stolen the deity's mouth as well as John's bliss. He tried to protest, but Castiel shushed him.

"He can't have you," Castiel murmured, fiercely possessive even in an undertone, "Let us handle him."

"Selfish bastards," John panted, until he checked in with himself and felt the hard thud of his pulse; breaths close to hyperventilation. And he knew. He was mortal - the only one of the lot. Dionysus was still a god, and gods like him ate humans like John for dinner. John's death might be accidental, or it might be on purpose, but if he insisted on his fair share, he probably wouldn't be waking up in the morning.

Castiel made a noise like an irritable lion, and took hold of John's cock. "Fair share of the pleasure, or the novel experience?"

John breathed in, pine resin mixing with Castiel's ozone-laden scent. He felt hands smoothing between his knees, knew they were Jack's by the calluses, and opened up. "You know me, sweetheart," he arched his back as Jack nibbled at his thighs, "Never fucked a god, before."

Castiel chuckled into his neck. "So like Jack," he purred, and his hands smoothed down John's bare chest.

Jack must have heard his name. He looked up John's body, face painted golden by the fire. As John watched, Castiel leaned down to kiss him. They made it a private thing, as if Jack didn't have a godling's hands smoothing down his ribs; as if this whole thing had been their idea from the start. Castiel's thumb slid along the belly of Jack's jaw, and then Dionysus was sliding home. Jack pressed into John, slick and hard. He wasn't quite ready (or hell, maybe it was the fear keeping his ass tight), and the pinch took off some of the gloss, until Castiel's warm mouth enveloped John's cock.

Everything got a little blurry from there. John tried to stay present, mostly succeeding, but something about the night didn't want to be seen and kept slipping away from him. In the end, he gave himself up to it, giving out just enough trust that he wouldn't die from this; that they'd lead him up to the edge of danger and hold him there.

They did. John's last memory was a sated Greek god flopping down beside him, scent of sex indolent on his lovely skin. On his opposite flank, Castiel's head slouched on Jack's chest. His eyes were slitted with contentment, watching John. It was probably meant to be reassuring, and came across as a little predatory instead, but John was honestly too fucked out to care.

They woke the next morning curled together by a dead fire, coats layered over them against the cold. It was a long trek back to the SUV, and nobody spoke much. 

Three large casks of wine waited for them in the back of the SUV, each barrel stamped with the sigil of Dionysus. Jack opened up the rear hatch and they stared at the barrels, numb with cold.

"That's all? I feel cheap," Jack complained.

"And the lives of a dozen virgins," Castiel reminded him.

John climbed gingerly into the cab, glad to have the trappings of humanity around him again. He felt weird. Shaken; off-center. Small wonder, he'd almost been blown to death by a wine god. The whole thing was just a bit too close to the old wild magics, for him. Demons, at least, were fairly predictable. He wanted an argument with Zed, a drink and his bed, in that order. Anything closer to normal.

"Is it always like this, with you two?" John wondered aloud.

Jack laughed, though his smile didn't make it to the eyes. "Usually the brushes with death aren't so cute."

"Although generally that self-centered," Castiel added, sounding unimpressed, "how are you, John?" He glanced into the back from the driver's seat, eyes meeting John's in the rear view mirror. John waved him off.

"No," Jack was saying, more soberly, "it's not like this. Usually, it's also not gods."

"And if it's a god, we kill it," Castiel said, "Their power base is gone. These days, they prey on humans."

John leaned back in his seat, grimacing as his rump twinged. The atmosphere in the SUV was getting a bit too heavy. "Yeah. Kind of a habit with the supernatural, that. Look, boys, if we're going to keep meeting like this, I've one request."

As one, their attention flicked to him.

"Someone has got to remember lube," John said firmly.


End file.
